


Don't die before I do

by fizzbuzzler



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Memory Loss, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11948193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzbuzzler/pseuds/fizzbuzzler
Summary: OK - that story had been with me for a while. I have several chapters worth of it, because it just happened. However, I am not so sure about posting all of it. The rest needs some serious rework, so I will leave it at this. For now, at least.Title is from a Rammstein Song "Stirb nicht vor mir / Don't die before I do" with guest vocals by Sharleen Spiteri from Texas. I seriously recommend checking it out.EDIT: a friend told me plain and simple to put up the whole thing. "It's not going to get any better on your harddrive" - so now I am posting the rest of it. Expect pretty dark stuff.Story plays in the Witcher universe but doesn't follow books/games - it is most likely set quite a bit after those.And a WARNING - this deals with topics like rape, suicide, loss and the like. I've changed the tags  accordingly."After what seemed an eternity to him, he gave up. Then one thought popped into his mind - a weak recollection of a feeling - despair. He grabbed the memory and tried to pull it closer, to see what was behind it. And he met pain - excruciating, all encompassing pain that made him feel a body he no longer had."





	1. Dying once

There was no pain. Only a distinct pressure in his back where the silver blade had parted his armor and entered his body. He looked down at his chest and saw nearly a foot of the sword emerging. It was surprisingly clean. Only a very light red shimmer that coagulated into a few drops of bright red blood was proof that it had been thrust into a living body.

He felt a sudden and strange pride that it had cut through the layers of leather, fabric, flesh and bone without any resistance whatsoever. He always had taken exceptional care with his swords. 

He briefly wondered why there was no pain, when a sudden searing bolt of agony coursed through his body. The epicenter being his chest where he could feel his heart try in vain to keep pumping around the metal that had pierced it.

His vision started to narrow and he felt something hot and liquid rise in his throat before it filled his mouth. He tasted metal. He wanted to breathe but all that came out was a wet moan when the blood poured over his lips down his chest. The only reason he was still upright on his knees was the hand that held his head up by a brutal grip in his hair. 

When that hand loosened he could no longer hold that position, it was as if all his limbs had gone numb and he dropped to the floor. He lay half on his side, the blade still through his chest. His body shivered and a few convulsions were the only movement he was capable of. 

He couldn’t hear anything anymore and the edge of his vision started going dark. His eyes roamed around and finally found the other body on the forest floor.  
Her limbs were bent at awkward angles and her open eyes stared unseeing ahead. The trails of her tears on her face had not dried up yet. His look wandered down over her half-opened mouth to her throat. The cut had nearly severed her head and he could see tendons, bone and cartilage amidst the sea of blood. 

The last thing he saw before his world went dark was the glint of her silver pendant that somehow was still pristine and unbloodied on it’s chain around her neck.


	2. Shades of grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go - Geralt is still with us - more or less.

The afterlife was grey. At least that’s what he thought when he opened his eyes. Only to realize that he wasn’t even sure if he had eyes to see.  
Everything around him was grey. The grey of the fog in a particularly nasty part of a bog. It was completely uniform and there were no forms or movements visible.

He tried to look down at his body but soon realized that there was nothing to look down to. No hands, no feet, no nothing.  
Only grey.

It was quiet - but as he didn’t seem to have ears, he wasn’t sure, if that was really the case. However, he could see and look around. Although the uniformity of the place made it difficult to pinpoint any movement on his part. He could have stared at the same spot or turned around in a full circle without knowing it. There was just nothing that would help his orientation.

He huffed, or imagined that he did, trying to remember what had been before. That he was dead was pretty clear to him. His consciousness or soul or whatever it was called was all that was left. And he knew with rock solid certainty that he was dead. It was an accepted fact. But how he ended up dead - he tried desperately to catch those memories but had no success.   
‘No witcher has ever died in his bed’ - the old saying popped into his thoughts. Amused he conceded that now he certainly wasn’t going to be the exception to that rule. Although for a time it had looked like that might be possible.   
He tried to grab the thought that came to his mind following this realization but it was gone in an instant, leaving only a wispy trace of sorrow and loss. At least he still had his feelings and emotions. If the Witcher trials hadn’t managed to rid him of them, death wouldn’t do it either.

Again he tried to pinpoint some semblance of spatial position and movement but still without success. He tried closing his eyes - the grey became darker but remained grey. There were none of the usual bursts of color or light that usually would show up behind closed lids. 

Next he decided to try his Witcher senses - but absolutely nothing happened. He grew frustrated. Maybe meditating would help. But there was no chance he could enter the state of mind needed for that, no matter how hard he tried. 

After what seemed an eternity to him he gave up. Then one thought popped up - a weak recollection of a feeling - despair. He grabbed the memory and tried to pull it closer, to see what was behind it. And he met pain - excruciating, all encompassing pain that made him feel a body he no longer had. His mind screamed. He tried to push the agony away but it stayed there like a vampire that had latched onto his neck, and it seemed to suck everything from him. 

Then it was there - everything that had happened was there - all the horrible details and recollections of screams, tears, gushing blood and a sharp silver sword that pierced his heart.

Finally the grey became black.

 

======================

 

Again everything was grey. He wanted to groan and put his head in his hands but there were no hands to lift and no head to put in them.  
But there was a difference - the grey was darker, and there were muffled sounds. And somehow he felt that he had a body again. He again tried to move. He would give anything if he just could prove to himself that he was no longer just a bunch of thoughts without a body.   
The noises grew louder - he thought they might be agitated voices. Concentrating all his being on his right hand he tried to move it. It was like coming up from a long dive with only a few seconds of precious breath left in his lungs. He could already see the surface of the water, even the blue of the sky and the clouds beyond it, but before he could break through, his breath ran out and he sank back to the dark depths, unable to do anything about it.

 

======================

 

Another awakening. He had decided to call the grey interludes that. He also played with the thought of naming the different grey tones, because none was the same. Some were lighter, some darker. He wondered how many different shades he could come up with. 20, 30,…? He also tried to put the sounds he often heard when he resurfaced, in some form of order. Voices, bird song, hammering. Thankfully there were no screams. Those only came when he became lazy and started drifting. He tried to avoid that. By now he didn’t want to know what was lurking behind those memories. He wanted peace and to forget. During his awakenings he sometimes would wonder, if this was the last one. A few times he tried to get away from it, he searched for a darkness that he knew had to be out there somewhere. But he could never quite reach it. All that ever came was dark grey, and then another awakening.

 

======================

 

Pain - horrible pain. Someone was piercing his flesh with a burning hot iron. He tried to scream but all he heard was a moan.  
“Careful, you will tear the aorta. Quick, let me take the needle. By the gods, he is coming to. We cannot have that. Give me bottle and the cloth. Damn it, that is the worst possible moment to regain consciousness. “  
He went back to dark grey no. 31.

 

======================

 

A light pressure on his forehead and a sensation of coolness were greeting him at his next awakening. That was new. He decided to enjoy this feeling. It was soothing and relaxing. The feeling then moved from his forehead to his chest and down his torso. He felt his arm was lifted. He still had arms - even if he couldn’t move them himself - they were there. The joy about that had him hold his breath. He felt that his other arm was moved as well, and the cool sensation was there, too. It then moved down to his legs. Left leg first, then the right one.   
Finally the coolness reached his crotch. He thought he heard giggling. Then the grey came again. His last thought was that he finally had his body back.

 

======================

 

Bright - it was way too bright. He tried to move away from the light but his head wouldn’t move. He realized that his eyes were open, both of them and that there were shadows moving about. Other people, he was no longer alone. His brain was still addled, but for the first time he felt more like himself than like a disembodied ghost.   
The brightness became suddenly less painful, his eyes must have adjusted and he could see clearer. The shadow that had moved in front of him had stopped.   
“Thank the gods. You are awake.” The voice was male and sounded equally relieved and shocked. The shadow moved again and disappeared from his narrow field of view.

He felt that he was about to go back to the grey and fought it with all his will. He would not go under again into that horrible nothingness. This time he succeeded.  
Soon he heard voices again, and this time two shadows came into view. He felt something cool on his forehead and it took him a while to realize that it was the hand of another human being. The relief that washed through his body must have been clearly visible.  
“You are with friends. We are taking care of you. You were nearly dead when you came to us.” A calm female voice said. He clung to it, wanted to hear more, wanted more reminders that he was still alive and not dead or in that horrible grey in-between.   
“It seems that you will recover, but it will take time. Try not to force anything. Your body needs rest.” The voice continued and the hand stroked lightly from his forehead down his cheeks.   
“Can you nod your head?”   
He was completely taken aback by that question. Desperately he tried to remember how nodding worked, and which muscles were involved. But it seemed that his body was way ahead of his brain because he felt himself move his head and the voice chuckled “Very good, do you want something to drink?” He thought about that for a moment, searching for the feeling of thirst. He found that his mouth was awfully dry and nodded. It worked more easily this time.   
The hand that had stroked his hair moved to the back of his head and lifted him slightly. A cold feeling on his lips announced the immediate arrival of something to drink, and he managed to swallow a bit.   
The few movements had exhausted him. After three sips he could not swallow anymore, and the water flowed over his lips.   
“That should be enough for now. Try to sleep. And do not worry, we will be here and you will wake up again.” The voice sounded confident. He wondered how the woman knew that not waking up was his greatest worry. He decided to trust her, and closed his eyes. Until the end the figures around him had remained shadows but he was fine with that. He would go to sleep and he would wake up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear reader. I hope you enjoyed it.   
> After posting my other story I found out that I really like comments (and if there is some constructive critisism, even more so).   
> Therefore - bring them on. And forgive my abysmal use of commas.


	3. Long way back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming back from the dead takes time.

Slowly he came back. He felt the fabric of the bedsheets underneath him, and the blanket that covered his body. His arms were outside and considerably cooler than the rest of him. His head pounded lightly but there was no other discomfort or pain.  
He lay there silently, and tried to take in his surroundings with his senses. He could hear voices in the distance. Too far away to understand but definitely human. He didn’t see much but he quickly found out that was because the blinds of the window in his room were drawn. Only a narrow shaft of light pierced through and painted a bright line on the floor beside his bed.  
He could feel all his extremities and tested them by carefully moving his fingers and toes. The deep sigh of relief caused his chest to flair up in pain. He dimly remembered the one time he woke up and felt as if someone was trying to push a burning-hot iron through him.  
His painful moan brought a reaction from one corner of the room. In the shadow a man had been dozing in a chair. At the noise he came to and stood up.  
“Ah… you’re awake again.” His eyes roamed over Geralt’s body “Are you in pain?” Geralt decided to give his vocal chords a try but the simple “Yes” he had planned to say came out as a short, hoarse grunt. Thinking that the young man would not know how to interpret that sound, he also gave a slight nod.  
“I will bring you something. Just wait for a minute. I’ll be right back.” And with that he left the room through the door. More light and sounds filtered in from the corridor outside, but he closed the door quickly behind him and Geralt couldn’t really see anything.

When he came back, a woman was with him. When she started talking he recognized the voice from the last time. “Finally you look more alive than dead.” She smiled brightly at him, her eyes full of relief.  
“Ayron here …” She pointed at the young man who busied himself preparing the medicine he had brought “told me that you already tried to speak. A vast improvement over the last time.”  
He lifted his eyebrows at that - he wouldn’t have called it a vast improvement but then, he was no healer.  
She continued to smile “My name is Carice var Irryth. I am the master healer in this hospital. Ayron is on of our apprentices. He has been taking care of you since the day you were brought in. At first we thought you wouldn’t make it through the night, and that we should only try to make your passing as painless and comfortable as possible. But the next morning you were still with us, so we decided that we would do everything in our power to save you. Your healing process will be the talk of generations of healers to come.”  
Her voice had filled with pride at the last sentences. To bring a man back from the dead was surely no small feat. However, the dead man might have preferred to remain that way during the last days… weeks… months. Geralt realized that he had no idea how much time had passed. He tried to vocalize his question without straining his vocal chords too much “How long…” he whispered.  
Carice looked at him for a while before answering “Two months, and the first six weeks you have been in a deep coma. The first time you came out of it was while we were operating on your open heart, to repair some of the damage that would not heal on it’s own. Then you resurfaced every few days but mostly stayed unresponsive.” She paused for a few moments  
“The last time, when you were able to communicate, was three days ago.” she finished.

Geralt closed his eyes - two months, that was longer than he had thought. Ayron came over to him, holding a small cup. “Got your pain medicine - I made it extra strong. Should be enough, even for someone with your metabolism. Drink slowly - it will take a few minutes to work.” The Witcher took small sips but every gulp let the pain in his chest flare up again.

Carice had watched with eagle eyes and now leaned forward. “I would like to take a look at your wound and change the dressing.” She waited for him to react. He was surprised that she would do so. It was a necessary process that had to be done, no matter what he thought of it. But then he understood. She would have to do it anyway but wanted him to know that she preferred to have his consent. So he nodded slightly.

With a smile she turned back to the table, and returned with a plate full of surgical instruments and rolls of fresh bandages. Her hands removed the blanket that covered him, and with a small scalpel she started to cut open the bandages that covered his chest. They fell open and to the side, and only a small poultice remained right above his heart. The cloth was stained dark and he wasn't really sure if it was from some potion or his blood. He strained to see better when she carefully lifted the fabric, and he sucked in a breath when it got stuck on his skin.  
“Sorry.” she murmured concentrating on removing every last fibre from the wound.  
His already deeply scarred chest would definitely get another addition. The flesh was an angry red and the wound was still open. He could see the sick yellow of pus in it’s depths.  
“Gods. The infection is still there. It should have been reduced by that poultice. We need to try something else.” Carice frowned looking over his body. He had seen wounds like his before, and a normal man would have never made it this far. He usually relied on his mutations to take care of infections, but his body never had to deal with an injury like that before.  
She started giving instructions to Ayron, who listened intently and then left the room.  
“Is the pain getting better?” Carice was carefully prodding the flesh around the wound “At least the infection is very local and has not spread out. And the entry wound on your back has already closed up.”  
He grunted and nodded, hoping she would understand the meaning.  
When Ayron came back he was carrying a small cauldron, it’s contents still steaming.  
“Good, the concentration should be right now. We’ll have to apply it while it is still hot.” The healer murmured, inspecting the liquid.  
“I am sorry, but this will hurt” and without any further ado she steeped a small cloth into the cauldron and, using a pair of metal pincers, she grabbed it and put it directly over the open wound.  
Geralt hissed and ground his teeth. He fisted his hands into the bedlinen. It burned like hell - not just because of the temperature but also because of it’s ingredients. He felt like it was eating through his flesh, clawing and burning like acid. His breath became ragged.  
He realized that Carice was watching him carefully. After a few minutes she removed the cloth, which had cooled considerably, still using the pincers.  
Relief swept over Geralt as cool air touched his skin. He didn’t see that the healer had put another cloth into the cauldron.  
“I’m sorry, we’re not finished yet.” And with that she put the new one on. This time Geralt couldn’t stop the scream that tore from his throat. He started panting - the pain began to dig even deeper into his chest.  
“I believe we will have to constrain him for the last one.” Ayron nodded and started rummaging in a chest. He came back with several leather straps.  
“There is unfortunately no other way to deal with this. I had hoped you would fall unconscious from the pain the first time I applied the poultice. But you are just too strong. The pain will grow and I do not want you to harm yourself… or us, for that matter.” She smiled a little.  
“But this is supposed to deal with your infection once and for all. However, it has to go as deep as the wound goes - which in your case is rather deep.”  
Geralt didn’t have the strength to even huff at that. He felt that Ayron started to secure his arms by his wrists to the bed. He did the same with his ankles and finally he strapped broad leather bands around his head and his torso below his heart.  
The Witcher wanted to laugh at that. But he was already weak as a kitten and so he just closed his eyes. He just hoped that they would finish this soon.  
When the cloth came the next time, he thought he was going to be ripped apart. He felt his heart miss a few beats and his body convulsed. He would have fallen from the bed if not for the bindings.  
When Carice finally removed the fabric he was half-unconscious. He could feel that his body was covered in sweat and his breathing was shallow and way too quick.  
Something cool touched his lips and he swallowed eagerly - water with some herbs in it. He couldn’t tell what, but it didn’t matter. His breathing slowed and his heart seemed to find back into it’s natural rhythm.  
Hands on his wrists and ankles removed the bindings and the bands around his head and torso also disappeared. He managed to open his eyes - Carice was wringing a piece of cloth and placed the cool and damp fabric on his forehead.  
“I cannot believe that you are still with us - your body is not doing you any favors.” she shook her head. “The wound has to stay uncovered for a while to dry up. Ayron will be here, should you need anything.”  
With that she stood up and, after a few quiet words with the apprentice, left.  
Ayron sat down and changed the cloth on his forehead. Geralt finally let go and darkness took him.

The next few weeks were a steady stream of short wakeful periods and long, deep and dreamless sleep. He finally started eating again - a clear broth at first and then some rice and vegetables.  
Ayron once asked if he wanted to have his beard trimmed and his hair cut, and when he saw his face in the mirror, he didn't recognize that gaunt, old man at all. He then looked at his body and realized for the first time that he must have lost half his weight. He could count his ribs and his abs were deep grooves with his hip bones poking out. When he looked at his legs he groaned - his thighs looked like sticks covered in skin - there was hardly any muscle left on them. When he tried to flex his bicep and nothing happened he threw the mirror that was still in his lap to the ground. He didn't even have enough strength to throw it hard enough to break.  
After that he asked Ayron to bring him weights. The young man came back with small rolls of burlap, filled with sand and sewn shut. Just trying to lift the smallest one for more than five times seemed nearly impossible.  
He also tried his Witcher senses on more than one occasion, but nothing ever happened. He grew so frustrated that he simply stopped trying. 

When he got on his legs the first time, he was like a newborn foal. He had no idea how to use those bloody trembling sticks, and could only stumble a few steps because he was leaning heavily on Ayron. It took a week for him to be able to stand up by himself and walk the few steps to the chamber pot to relieve himself. However, it was one of the proudest moments of his recovery when he finally could take care of that basic bodily function again. He had grown to hate bedpans as much as portals.

During those weeks Carice came regularly to look after him and check his wound. She would try to chat with him. Usually she started off with something light, about the antics of her medics or a particularly nasty boil she had lanced recently. But she would always try to find out more about Geralt. Especially how he came to be their most famous patient to that day - ‘the man who lived’, as people had started calling him.  
The Witcher blocked every single question that aimed at that direction. He knew his name, he knew what his profession was, but the event that had brought him to the hospital, and the years before that he kept hidden behind a dark, impenetrable wall. Especially from himself - he had no intention of confronting the terror that he knew lay behind it. In one of their talks, just as the healer again had tried to get him to reveal something, and Geralt as usual had refused to say anything, things changed. Instead of leaving him be, Carice looked hard at him “I know that you are scared beyond measure to confront whatever happened back then, but without you doing so, you will never be healed. You will forever remain weak, and I know as well as you do, that that is not what you are.  
Think about it - your body is doing well, you should take care that the same goes for your soul.”

Geralt wanted to destroy something after that talk - he tried with one of the training dummies he had started to work with recently. But his strength left him before the bloody thing had even lost an arm under his attacks. That evening he decided to get drunk.  
Ayron was the perfect drinking buddy - keeping up with him and not asking questions. Although his Witcher senses were still not working, his metabolism was already much improved. When Ayron was already completely drunk, Geralt felt just slightly tipsy.  
He decided to go for a walk, and left the young man with his head on the table, snoring lightly.

Taking a nearly full bottle with him, he made his way out to the small hill behind the hospital. At the top he found a boulder and sat down in front of it, leaning his back into the rough surface.  
He took a swig from the bottle and relaxed at the warm feeling that spread in his stomach. He smiled up at the dark sky and his breathing became slower. He sank into a semi-meditative state. His body then moved out of it’s own accord, and he sat up on his knees and put his hands on his thighs. His eyes closed and he went into meditation.  
He came to when someone touched his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Carice and Ayron, both with a worried expression. The sun was already high in the sky - he must have meditated for ten hours or more. He wanted to tell them that everything was alright and he had just lost track of time, when suddenly he felt first extremely hot and then freezing cold, his heart seemed to want to jump out of his chest and instead of standing up, his body convulsed and he dropped to the side.  
His hands gripped his hair at his temples and he screamed like he had never screamed before. The black wall had come down.

He writhed on the floor and tried to get away from the pain. His screams had subsided to whimpering but his fingers still clawed at his head. Trying to rip the memories that flooded him relentlessly from his brain. But there was no relief, no mercy. Every detail was suddenly seared into his brain, like the scars on his body. Irremovable and there until the end of his life.

How he came to be back in his room was a mystery to him, when he finally came to, and could think of something else than those memories. He felt extremely fuzzy as if the whole world was padded in wool.  
Ayron was there and held a cup to his lips. Geralt drank greedily and let sleep take him. 

‘Feyha’ - that word, no - that name - was in his mind when he woke up. Still feeling strangely subdued he rolled the word around his tongue. There were memories behind the fuzziness - he knew that much. He also realized that the woolen fog in his mind was drug-induced.  
When Ayron came the next time and wanted him to drink another potion he turned his head away. “Clear head… I need a clear head.” he croaked hoarsely.  
The young medic sighed and left. He came back after a short time with Carice. Sitting down on the bed the chief medic put her hand on Geralt’s. “Are you sure you want this? Do you recall how you reacted after you remembered for the first time?” He closed his eyes - he could still feel the pain and panic that had gripped him but he couldn't continue in this semi-lucid state. He nodded.  
The medic sighed “Good, but we will have to restrain you again, if necessary. You tore your hair out last time, and scratched your skin as if you wanted to dig into your skull. You will be watched by a medic at all time.”  
When his mind finally cleared up, the memories started to pour in again. This time he was prepared and let them wash over him. His breath hitched but he didn’t fight them. He let them consume him, engulf his mind and gave himself up to them.

When Ayron came to relieve the young woman on duty, and to check up on him, he felt weak and empty. The young man handed him a cup and Geralt drank deeply.  
Finally he got up and dressed slowly. Ignoring the questioning looks by the young medic, he left the room and went to find Carice. 

He found her in her room pouring over some letters. “Where have you found me?” he inquired without bothering to greet her. She looked up slowly “You were found by soldiers and brought here. I do not know where from.” She indicated the chair in front of her desk for him to sit down “Are you ready to talk? Tell me what happened?”  
Geralt ignored both the offer to sit as well as the questions “Where can I find those soldiers? Are they stationed around here? Or were they just passing through? Do you know which regiment they were with?”  
His barrage of questions only drew a raised eyebrow. “They are part of a regular patrol that passes by every few months. This year they are due once more before winter. They should actually pass through the village in two weeks time.” Carice answered with the patience of years of medical service.  
The Witcher turned around and left her office without another word. He made his way to the yard, where he had put up some training dummies and started working on them. This time he only stopped after two straw figures were reduced to shreds by his sword, and his grip started to slip in his sweaty hands. 

He dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Feyha - he had lost her - she had been taken from him. His mind was filled with this last image of her, lying on the floor in a sea of her own blood. No matter how hard he tried, every thought ended with him seeing her like this. He hit the cobbled ground with his fist, again and again until every hit left a bloodied trace. 

And he also remembered how it had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Next chapter will be up soon.


	4. Remembering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We enter the past.
> 
> WARNING: this chapter deals with suicide and rape. Please be aware.

... and he also remembered how it had happened...

When they had been captured, they were vastly outnumbered. The bandit leader had known who and what he was, and that to capture a Witcher you needed more than a few men. They had been lured into the derelict house by the premise of a contract. As soon as they were inside, a barrage of spells and fireballs descended on them. Some mages were easily bought, and these two had intended to do some studying on a living Witcher - after the bandits had finished with him.  
Feyha had managed to kill one mage - when the man had tried to blind Geralt with bolts of lightning she had thrown herself at him and used her momentum to break his neck. So much for underestimating her because she was a woman. The bandits had then decided to drop all pretenses and had managed to subdue Geralt, who had already been weakened by the magical attack. They would not have succeeded however, if they hadn’t managed to get to Feyha first. One of them had hit her over the head with his mace and she had dropped like a puppet, whose strings had been cut. He wanted to run over to her, but one bandit was quicker and held his dagger to her throat. That was enough to make him stop. He didn’t resist when they put shackles on him and gagged him. He only watched, as they shackled her as well, and let them put them both in a cage on a cart outside. There was no escaping from there. He knew he had to wait.  
They traveled for half the night. After a while Feyha regained consciousness and started shivering. Her head wound had bled copiously and she most likely still had a concussion. Covering her with his body, he tried to warm her. He heard a few lewd remarks from the bandits that rode beside the cart but ignored them. He couldn’t do anything about it anyway.  
Arriving at their destination they were pulled from the cage, and roughly dragged across an enclosed yard into a stone building. The men to escort them pushed them into a study. Book cases, a desk, a few chairs. And a rather large and plush carpet on the floor that softened the impact of his knees considerably as he was pushed down. 

“Finally. You are a hard man to find, Witcher” a voice came from the door. A man with the stature of a bear and shaggy brown hair entered, followed by the mage that had helped capture them. The sorcerer had a nervous tick, and his head constantly bobbed up and down. The bandit leader pointed at Geralt as he moved over to the desk and the Witcher suddenly felt pain coursing through is body. He convulsed and hardly managed to stay on his knees. “Just to show you that it would be a really bad idea to try something stupid.” the man sneered.  
If not for the gag, Geralt would have had some very choice words for him. So he could only shoot a vicious look at him. The man chuckled and then seemed to remember that Geralt wasn’t the only prisoner in this room. Feyha had been kept standing by one of the bandits who had brought them in, and she was clearly still half unconscious. With an approving hum the leader stepped in front of her. “Nice wench. You let her play with that sword?” He pointed at the empty scabbard on her back. He gripped the top of her tunic and ripped it open without showing any effort. Cutting the leather straps of the scabbard and pushing the fabric down her arms he stood back to look at her naked torso. “Good tits, the scars are a bit too much for my taste but you know - whatever get’s you going.” His hand gripped one breast and squeezed hard. Her breath hitched and a small moan left her lips. Her eyes were still closed.  
Geralt hadn’t uttered a sound but he was seething. With near inhuman speed he pushed himself from his kneeling position and head-first towards the man. But before he reached him, he was thrown down and writhed in agonizing pain on the floor. The mage had just been waiting for him to do something like that.  
“You’d like to join in? I‘m sorry, but I prefer not to share” with that the leader took her from the man holding her and pushed her towards his desk. He bent her down over it and with one smooth movement pushed her breeches and smallclothes down. He turned around to the Witcher while loosening the bindings of his own trousers, and pulled his engorged cock out. He was pumping himself to full hardness and wanted Geralt to see it. He signaled to the men behind the Witcher and Geralt felt several hands grabbing him and holding him in place. The mage uttered another incantation and the he felt invisible bonds around his body. He tried to move but they tightened immediately. 

The bandit leader had finished stroking himself, and turned back towards the desk. Feyha had finally regained her consciousness, and tried to get up from the table. With a thud the bandit pushed her back down, eliciting a pained groan from her. “Nice of you to finally join us in our little tryst. You’ll enjoy it… not!” He sneered and positioned the head of his cock at her entrance. “Mmmh… a bit dry for my taste, but it’ll do.” With those words he pushed hard. Feyha screamed. Geralt’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull as he tried to get to her and the bindings constricted even more. He hung there only held up by the hands of the bandits behind him.  
Feyha continued to scream and sob as the man forced his cock into her - she was just too dry and tight to allow him to do it in one push. He had to practically ram himself in, and it took several tries until he was finally seated in her to the hilt. After a short pause he started thrusting.  
Her screams had stopped, and she was just moaning as he forced himself on her.  
Geralt’s vision had turned white and his heart thundered in his ears. He tried desperately to find some way as to how to escape this madness. But to no avail - he steeled himself to watch the scene in front of him to the end. It only took a few more minutes. Then the bandit leader shuddered and spilled himself in her. Geralt’s teeth ground down on his gag. He knew perfectly well that this was just to show him who was in charge, and how weak and impotent he was right now. And it did work all too well.  
When the man finally had put his cock back into his trousers he took her by the neck and threw her across the carpet toward Geralt. She tried to get to her feet but only managed to rise to her knees, with her trousers still pulled down her thighs. She coughed and spit, and tears were streaking her cheeks. But when she looked up to Geralt he saw the fury in her eyes. She managed to wriggle her breeches back up, although she couldn’t close them with her hands tied behind her back. Then she bared her teeth and jumped. Geralt was the only one who had expected it - the mage did nothing, because he only had eyes for the Witcher, and the bandit leader tried to turn but only made it half-way before she was on him. Her teeth found his neck and she bore down hard. His shout shook the room into a frenzied action. Geralt was pushed to the floor by a spell from the panicking mage, the bandits who had held him let go, and went for their boss to tear Feyha away from him.  
In the end it took three men to make her let him go. Her face was bloodied, from his blood but also from her own. A cut above her eyebrow was the result of a ringed fist hitting her hard. The leader was howling and pressing a piece of cloth to the wound. “The ploughing bitch, I’ll kill her, she bit me… she bit me.” He stormed out of the room, and half his men went with him.  
The mage tightened his spell on Geralt even more, and the Witcher was forced down to the ground curling up and concentrating on somehow getting enough air into his lungs. Suddenly he could feel the heat of a body beside his and a soft voice whispered in his ear. “I am here. Stay calm - the more you fight it, the tighter the bonds become. I am with you - always will be with you.” He held on to the voice and managed to calm his labored panting. Slowly the bonds slackened to the point were he could actually draw a deep breath.  
They stayed like this for some time, ignoring the comings and goings of the men around them. They were together and that was the only thing of importance then. She knelt in front of him with her forehead touching his, sharing his breath.  
When they were dragged back to their feet, the bandit leader was back. A thick bandage around his neck forced him to hold his chin up high.  
“You fucking freaks are not worth to be kept around. I had hoped to get a tame pet-Witcher out of this, with the help of the rodent behind you.” he pointed to the mage “But it seems that’s out of the question now. So plan B it is - I’ll at least avenge my brothers in arms. You, Witcher, have killed so many of them - it is time you paid up for that - including interest.” He shot a leering look towards Feyha.  
“When people learn that I have killed the great Geralt of Rivia they will think twice before trying to trick me. You will be good for business after all - even as a corpse.” His smile got cruel “Let’s go. I don’t want any mess here - but I know just the place.”  
Geralt still was concentrating on getting air into his lungs, so it took him a few moments before the last few sentences made any sense to him. They would get another chance for escape, at least.

They were manhandled back to the cart and thrown into the cage. With another incantation the mage renewed his magical bonds. This time on both of them so that neither was able to even lift their head. The uncomfortable trip ended after a short while in a small clearing off the main road. It took four men to maneuver their tightly bound bodies from the cage. In the end the leader had the mage take some of his spell back, so that they could stand on their own. They even removed Geralt’s gag. He immediately turned around and head-butted the man who was still standing behind him, gag in hand. Then he started to whirl around and kick another one in the stomach, when a painful cry stopped him dead in his tracks. He stood, crouched and breathing heavily, his hands still shackled behind his back, and snarled at the man who had just put a dagger to Feyha’s stomach and slashed a deep gash across her skin. Her blouse already darkened from the blood that welled up.  
Geralt felt his invisible bonds tighten once more and staggered.  
“Weak idiot -” the leader sneered, showing his teeth “just hurt his bitch and he’ll start groveling in the dirt.”  
The Witcher didn’t fight anymore when four of the men closed in on him, and held the tips of their blades to his neck, so close that even breathing drew blood.

The sun was just rising behind the mountains and a scattering of light clouds covered the sky. Geralt could hear the birds starting their morning song. In a rather detached feeling he knew that this would be the end. As he had always known, he would not die in bed. He looked towards Feyha and searched for her eyes. There was fear in her green irises. He tried to look calm and self-assured, if only for her sake. When one of the bandits pushed her to her knees in front of him, and held a dagger to her throat, he kept his eyes locked onto hers. He saw how the fear was replaced with defiance and was immensely proud of her at that moment. His heart seemed to grow in his chest as he tried to convey all the love and admiration he held for her with his eyes. His pupils widened and his irises glowed a deep amber when he narrowed his focus on her. She smiled and then something broke behind her eyes. Her mouth opened as if to say something but only a wet gargle came. Geralt’s vision started swimming as he saw how the dagger cut through her throat, severing flesh and arteries. He tried to focus back on her eyes but all he could see there was pain… and then nothing.  
He started choking “Feyha,… no… wait…” he croaked, his voice rough with his tears. He knew he should scream and try to avenge her but somehow he had no strength left. It was as if with all the blood that had spilled from her body, he had also lost his will to fight.  
He didn’t really feel when the floor hit his knees as he was pushed down, or the hand in his hair that held him up.  
Then the blade of his silver sword was pushed through his chest and his life ended.

==============

He cowered on the ground, sobbing as he lived through it all again. His heart broke for a second time and a part of his soul was torn from him again.

When he was found by a few young medics he was in a near comatose state. They carried him to his room. He heard them speak, felt the cool cloth on his forehead and realized that Carice and Ayron were there.  
He didn’t really care and wanted them to be gone. When a cup was held to his lips he simply didn’t open them to drink.  
Waiting for them to leave, his thoughts raced in his head. He hadn’t forgotten his talk with Carice about the soldiers who had brought him here. In less than two weeks he would have a chance to find out where it all had happened. He couldn’t let it pass.

The next ten days found him taking up his training again. And he intensified it - although he knew that ten days were nothing to rebuild a body that had taken a whole lifetime before. But it helped to keep his thoughts in control. And that was just as important.

Finally a young boy showed up during his morning session. He was out of breath, having run the whole way from the village. Geralt smiled and gave him the coin he had promised to the first who would inform him of the arrival of the soldiers.  
He didn't go back to his room but went straight to the stables and saddled a horse. When he arrived at the village’s inn he could see half a dozen horses with the royal crest of Temeria on their saddles in front of it.  
Taking a deep breath he unmounted and entered the inn. He still felt naked without his two swords on his back, now even more so. The simple steel weapon at his side in a borrowed scabbard was a poor replacement.  
The soldiers were easily found - they had settled around a table and were already digging into the food that had been placed in front of them. Geralt slowly walked over. He knew that he wouldn’t have to introduce himself, when the first soldier to see him simply dropped the spoon he was about to put into his mouth “By the gods,… guys look.” The others turned around, and when they saw him all stared at him with their mouths open.  
Geralt smiled and lifted his hands “No need to let your stew get cold. I just heard you were here and came to talk. And to thank you.”  
The soldiers came back to their senses and the one who was clearly their officer offered Geralt a place at the table. “Good gods, man you gave us a scare. Thought a ghost had come in. Sit down, sit down and have a drink with us. I’d never thought to see you again - and alive at that.”  
The Witcher accepted the invitation and soon had a mug placed in front of him. “I need to ask you a few questions.” He began without any further ado. The sooner he got his answers, the better.  
With a raised eyebrow the officer looked at him “I imagine you do. And we owe you the answers to them.”  
Geralt drew a deep breath and steeled himself with another gulp from his mug. “Where did you find me and how?” He started looking around. One of the men put down his spoon and rubbed his hand over his chin “I found ya. T’was about half a days ride west from here. Was searching for a quiet spot in the woods. Patrol was taking a rest on the road. Heard some moaning behind the bushes. Went there and found you on the ground. Blood everywhere. Huge wound in your chest - all the way through.”  
Geralt had stared at the man during his retelling “Find any swords lying around?”  
The soldier fidgeted under his gaze “Nay - nothing there. Whoever ran you through with it had taken it out again. How the hell didn’t you bleed to death?”  
Geralt didn’t answer that question but he knew that his mutations had let his blood coagulate quickly enough to prevent him from bleeding out.  
He closed his eyes for a moment - he dreaded the answer to the next question. “Was I alone?”  
At this the man lowered his eyes to his bowl and swallowed visibly. His officer took pity on him and answered instead “No, we found the body of a woman there as well. She was dead. We buried her there. Couldn’t take her with us but wouldn’t want the animals to have her.” He looked at Geralt with pity in his eyes but refrained from any further comment.  
“Tell me exactly where it was.” His yellow pupils burned and stared into the man’s light blue ones. Waiting for a few heartbeats the officer finally nodded, and reached into his pack behind him to pull out a map.

When Geralt rode back to the hospital he was deep in thought. He had left the men with the promise of paying his debt to them as soon as he got some of his possessions back. They had accepted, although he quietly suspected that they really didn’t believe he would ever follow through but hadn’t wanted to hurt his pride.  
The men had found nothing there except their two bodies. The only tracks had led back to the main track and were lost in the maze of other tracks on the busy road.  
He had been brought to the hospital, and the soldiers had left after a short break. None of them had believed that he would make it. 

That afternoon he busied himself with travel preparations. Ayron quietly fetched some food and other provisions for him and Carice changed his bandages once more and made sure that the new ones would survive a few days on horseback. None tried to dissuade him from his plan and he was grateful for that.  
He slept soundly and rose an hour before the sun would come up. Taking his pack and sword to the stables he took the same horse as the day before and rode out.  
Around noon he started to search for a particular rock formation at the road side that should be close to the clearing.  
When he found it, he turned off the road, his pulse rushing loudly in his ears. He was trying to breathe deeply when he finally reached the clearing. Slowly he unmounted and stood at the edge under the trees. It didn’t look familiar at all, and he thought at first that it was the wrong place, until he saw the small mound of stones half hidden in the shadows at the other end of the clearing.  
Without thinking he walked over and stood before it. It was unmistakably the resting place of a human body.  
He blinked several times and tried to decide what to do. When he heard a quiet snort he turned to see his horse standing there and trying to reach some leaves from a nearby bush. He went over and relieved the animal from it’s tack, and put everything on the ground near the grave. Then he gathered some wood - it was clear he would not leave today but would have to spend the night. His gaze swept the grass, constantly expecting to find a hue of deep red in the green or the glint of a blade, but the clearing was completely empty.  
Finally he turned towards the grave and sank down in front of it. His hands started removing one rock after the other. He concentrated so much on putting the rocks aside in a neat heap, that he didn’t realize at first that his fingers were no longer touching cold stone but soft fabric. He stilled and stayed like that for what seemed an eternity - staring at the formerly white bit of cloth that peaked through the stones. He knew that her tunic had been white. He ground his teeth and continued, until the last stone that had covered her had been removed.  
He held his breath. The rot had already started to transform the former living flesh. He looked at the sunken-in eye cavities, the strands of auburn hair and the still deep green color of her breeches. Where once were full, smiling lips he could now see the teeth set in the rotting skull.  
Finally he forced himself to look closer at her throat. Even in her advanced stage of decay it was clear that this had been the cause of her death. The gash was so deep her head was only held by her spine and a few strands of skin. He saw something glint under the squirming heap of maggots he had disturbed in their feast. Carefully he reached out and found her necklace with the silver pendant depicting a curled-up wolf. He had given it to her to tease her for her love of long sleep-ins while he was training her. “You couldn’t possibly wear the wolf-medallion. This seems to suit your inner wolf better.”  
She had beaten his ass seriously in the following training sessions and he had had to work really hard to not lose to her. The memory made him smile. His sleeping she-wolf. Carefully he removed the necklace and put it in one of his pouches.  
Then he moved over to his pack and unfolded the large pieces of canvas he had brought with him. When he had heard that the soldiers had buried her here, he had decided that he would take her with him and bury her in a proper cemetery, not under a bunch of rocks in the place where she had to die. He knew she would laugh at such notions - she didn’t believe in gods or an afterlife.  
But he wanted her to lie in a spot with a beautiful view, surrounded by light and he knew she would like that very much.  
Carefully he laid out the first canvas that had a waxed, waterproof surface and started to roll her body onto it without it falling apart. When he had managed that, he tightly wrapped the cloth around her and then used the second canvas to repeat the procedure. This way he was sure that no liquids could seep through and also that the horse wouldn’t get spooked by the smell.

When he had finished he looked at the rather small package in front of him. She never had seemed small in real life - rather the opposite. He had been taken with her from their first meeting, when she had been trying to fight of a bunch of Nekkers with her bare hands and a dagger.  
She had managed two of the dumb monsters but the others had closed in on her and weren’t as dumb as their colleagues and had started to take turns in attacking her. She could hardly keep to her feet when he had charged in, slicing them apart with his silver sword.  
“Wow - my knight in shining armor, finally…” she had panted after he had finished and turned towards her “… could’ve shown up a bit earlier.” She looked at him more closely “Maybe not so shining that armor” she continued before dropping to her knees and putting a hand to her ribs with a painful expression on her face.  
Geralt had blinked a few times before he decided to ignore the comment about his non-shiny armor. He had been in this gods-forsaken swamp for four days straight. The only shiny thing about him were his swords, and for that she should be grateful. He had led her to his camp and taken care of the gash at her side, left by one of the Nekkers. As he cleaned the wound he could see that this was not her first injury. She sported quite an impressive collection of scars on her own. But when he tried to question her about her whereabouts she closed up.  
When he woke up the next morning she was gone. He couldn’t avoid being impressed that she had managed to sneak away without him noticing. His admiration for her lessened significantly, when he realized that she had taken some of his food, and the short sword he had always strapped to his saddle. He found a note she had scrabbled with some charcoal from the fire on a piece of parchment.  
‘Sorry for the stealthy disappearance. Couldn’t stay. Also yesterday showed me that I needed a weapon and not just a letter-opener. Will try to repay you. Really.  
Feyha  
PS: thanks for saving my life’  
He looked at the note and shook his head. Then he turned the parchment around - she had used the diagram for his mastercrafted armor of all things. He shook his head and couldn’t help smiling.

He had found her again after a month in Oxenfurt. They happened to stay in the same inn and she really had repaid him. More than once during that memorable night. They then happened to meet every once in a while. And after a few months of chance meetings in rural inns he couldn’t deny any longer that he was now actively searching villages for her, to ensure that there would be another ‘accidental’ meeting.  
They had then stayed on the road together, and he had started training her the Witcher way. She was already a good fighter with experience but his style was new to her, and she proved to be a quick study. One night she finally told him where she had come from. She was from another world and had ended up in that swamp purely by coincidence. She also told him that he reminded her of the one she had left behind. That man had been her heart and soul and she had lost him.  
With a sad smile she had told him about her past “He was a fighter, like you are, a true warrior. He was so much older than I when I first met him - I saw more of a father figure in him than anything. Taking care of me had not been his intention. At first he tried to get rid of me but somehow I seem to be difficult to get rid of.” shrugging her shoulders, she continued “So he thought I should at least be able to earn my keep and started training me. Unarmed techniques first and then the sword. I had still been a kid when he took me in and he treated me without any thought to the fact that I was a girl. I still remember when I had my first period - still don’t know who was more in panic - me because I had no idea what was going on, or him, who had no idea how to talk about it. And then somehow… he changed in my eyes. I started to dream about him and I noticed his looks at me, when he thought I couldn’t see. Long story short, we changed our relationship from father/daughter to lovers. And we were inseparable. We would fight together and take care of each other, when one was wounded. He sold his services as a mercenary and I started working as a free-lance agent for whoever was able to afford it. As a woman there were certain advantages in that field of work. And also unique risks - men are the same in every world. They think they can break women by raping them.” She then stared into the fire without saying anything. A chill had run down Geralt’s spine at the thought what she might have had to endure, but he hadn’t moved. Completely absorbed in her past she eventually continued “And then he got caught, and killed when he tried to escape. I was on my way to save him but it was too late. They had put his body on a stake in front of the city walls together with all the others from his commando who had been caught. I couldn’t even bury him. So I set fire to the stake one night. He shouldn’t rot there. Nothing remained of him. Revenge was no option - I was alone and would have achieved nothing. My worst fear had become true - he had died before I did.” That last memory had her shiver and she pulled her knees up and rested her head on them, hugging herself. Geralt then had moved over and taken her into his arms, just holding her. After a while she continued in a small voice that she had been desperate and wanted to end her life. When she stood on a cliff she simply decided to jump, and jumped straight through a portal halfway down. And ended up in the Nekker swamp. Instincts took over and she started to fight. After being rescued by her ‘knight in slimy armor’ as she would refer to him teasingly, she had left because she simply had no idea what to do or how to handle her situation. In this state of mind she had reached Oxenfurt and used the last of the coin she had earned in villages along the way to pay for a night at the inn - where they met again. When asked how she earned the money, she bluntly answered that she had done so by selling herself. The one income option that always was available for women. 

When they had decided to stay together, he felt as if some hole inside him, that he never even knew existed, had been mended. He had never felt so content in his life as when they stood side by side and fought a fiend or basilisk. She had become his heart and soul then. The years passed - he could see that she aged like a normal human and that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Their time together was limited. She always joked that she could at least show off her young lover when she was finally old and tatty. But although he knew that their lives where dangerous and could end with the quick slash of a forktail claw he had never thought it would end like this. 

His eyes stared into the fire and a small smile played about his lips at his memories. 

He finally decided to spend the rest of the night in meditation - he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. 

When the sun rose he was already in the saddle, her body in it’s covers safely strapped behind him onto the horse. He reached the hospital shortly after noon. They must have seen him approaching because both Ayron and Carice were waiting for him. He unmounted and started to undo the straps to the canvas. Ayron was there to help him in silence. He then led Geralt who carried her body in his arms to the mortuary. The cool room in the basement of the main building was empty. He placed her on the table in the middle of the room.

“I…” he didn’t go on.  
“When do you want us to hold the funeral?” Carice asked quietly. He looked at her “Tomorrow morning, no reason to wait.” With that he left.  
He walked down to the small cemetery on the hospital grounds. It was located near the cliffs and every storm that came in from the sea hit there first. There were not trees or bushes, just some boulders and grass. The graves were simply marked with stones set into the earth. Some had engravings, some not. He knew she would have loved this place. No romantic rose bushes in sight. He smiled to himself while he searched for the right spot for the grave. When he had finally found it, he grabbed the hilt of the spade he had brought and started digging. As some workers of the hospital showed up and wanted to help him, he sent them away. He dug for several hours, making sure that the grave was deep enough for a body and then dug even deeper.  
Only when he was satisfied he went back to his room. It was already dark and he sat down in front of his bed to meditate. He knew he would have to get some real sleep soon but for now he would have to make do with meditation.  
Shortly after sunrise he was at the mortuary. He found her body already wrapped in white linen. He sat there, his hand resting on the fabric and waited for them to pick her up.  
They were a small group who followed the bearers. Him, Carice, Ayron and the Soldiers. Someone had told them that he had picked her up, and they had decided to pay their respects before they rode on.  
Geralt had insisted that there would be no priest or priestess or anyone who would talk about gods and heaven or hell. So Carice spoke and used parts of the Ritual of the Dead that didn’t dabble in religion. When they had laid her into the ground, the workers started closing the grave. The others stood by in silence waiting for the last part of the ritual. When all earth was moved back, the Witcher stepped forward and took a flat stone from one of the workers. He had asked them to engrave it the day before. He knelt down and carefully placed the stone in the middle of the small mound of earth. He placed his hand on it, slowly tracing the letters with his fingers.  
“My soul, my heart“ - he whispered it to himself. He could hear the others leaving slowly and talking on their way. His Witcher senses still hadn’t returned - he couldn’t understand what they were saying. He stayed at her grave the rest of the day and night - not seeing the sun move across the sky or feeling the short bout of rain that came down in the afternoon. The moon rose and set and he still sat there. Only well after midnight he moved for the first time in the last hours. Slowly he stood up and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Only one more to go.


	5. Fulfillment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. 
> 
> Just like with the last chapter, a warning. This deals with suicide, revenge and violence.

The next weeks he spent training, and trying to find any trace of the bandits that had captured them. He had given up on his Witcher senses ever returning and a quick self-trial with a very weak potion of swallow had returned an entirely undesirable result. Severely ill for two days and weak as a kitten for one week he didn’t want to repeat that experiment anytime soon. But his sword skills were something he still had. That should be enough.  
However, all his searches resulted in nothing.

 

When Ayron told him that a group of armored men had brought some injured comrades to the hospital, and that the leader was a huge bear of a man with shaggy brown hair and a disfiguring bite mark on his neck, he couldn’t believe it at first. When the young man looked at him with a shocked expression he realized that he had just crushed the glass he had been holding in his hand without wanting to. He shook the remaining shards from his fingers and curiously watched the blood welling up from the cuts. He relished the pain and used it to fuel his anger.  
“Where are they?” He bit out between clenched teeth.  
Ayron first hesitated with his answer “We have sworn an oath to help anyone in need. I cannot…”  
Geralt stood up and put his hands on the table. He loomed over the younger man “But I have done no such thing. Where are they?” His tone made clear that he would not accept anything but a truthful answer. Ayron closed his eyes and murmured “In the smaller building near the stables. We didn't want them in the main building.” He looked up at the Witcher and swallowed hard at the fury that he could read in the man’s yellow eyes.  
Geralt nodded sharply and left the room. He didn't even bother to pick up a weapon. He met no one on his way to the other building and was quite glad about that.  
When he entered, he heard voices from a room on the left. He quickly checked the other rooms in the building but they were empty. Returning to the first door he slowly opened it and remained in the door frame, his arms crossed in front of him assessing the men inside.  
Until he opened the door he had still harbored some doubts if the men were those who had attacked them. But the faces he saw in the room were all too familiar. 

The men had stopped talking as he entered and were staring at him like they had seen a night wraith. It was obvious they had thought him to be dead. Slowly he turned around and bolted the door. He didn't want anybody to disturb him.

None of the men had moved yet. Geralt’s eyes went over them, searching for one in particular. When he found him, his vision turned red. It took all his strength to collect himself and regain his usual calmness. He remembered the man all too well. His laughter over Feyha’s tears. The look of sadistic pleasure as he pulled his dagger across her throat and his glee as he watched her, bleeding out at his feet. 

Geralt walked slowly towards him. He saw only him. When he reached the bandit his eyes blazed with hatred and fury. He bared his teeth “You are dead.” he bit out.  
The other man had at first only looked surprised. Now he looked positively horrified. His hand tried to pull the sword out of its scabbard at his side but before he was even able to grip the hilt Geralt had closed the distance between them, and put his hands around his head. His thumbs pushed into the eye sockets and met no resistance. He felt the eyeballs give way and the wet inside of the mans skull.  
The blood-curdling scream that tore from the man’s mouth only had him smile. He shoved the now blinded man away from him and turned to the others. He would take his time with that one.

Finally the other men awoke from their paralysis - they came at the Witcher with their weapons drawn. He finished the first two quickly and grabbed one of their swords. He knew that he had not the strength yet to play with them, and had to finish them before he grew too weak.  
The steel sword sang in the air and his feet danced to it’s tune. The bandits fell one by one. They were massively hampered by the fact that they were in a cramped room trying to avoid hitting their comrades, whereas the Witcher had no such qualms. The steel bit into flesh and bones and never killed immediately. Mortally wounded one man after the other slowly ended his miserable life on the bloodied floor of the hospital. 

Suddenly Geralt felt a hot pain at his back. The leader had kept himself in the background, obviously hoping that his men could subdue the raging Witcher in their midst. Now he and the blinded bandit were the only ones still standing and he had managed to attack Geralt from behind.

Snarling the witcher turned around and brought up his sword. His breath was already labored and he could feel that his strength had nearly drained out. The bandit leader clearly saw it, too.

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. A weak Witcher.” He smirked. “Did they patch you up here?” he asked only to continue “Never have seen a man survive a sword thrust through his chest. Should have cut your throat instead. That did work beautifully on that bitch of yours.” He lifted his sword. “I’ll have to remedy that now, I guess.”  
With that he feinted to the right side. His sword clashed with the Witcher’s steel and he had to jump back. Geralt quickly realized that the man preferred to brutally slash at his opponent, defeating the other by using his considerable strength. He would not be able to withstand that kind of brute force attack for long. He lightly pirouetted around the man, avoiding the bodies on the floor and slashed at his side. The other one grunted and turned to continue his attack with brutal blows that made Geralt’s muscles burn when he had to parry them.  
Gathering all his remaining strength he moved to the side, so fast that it was hardly visible, took his sword in both hands and brought it down onto the man’s arms. The blade cut through flesh and bone and severed both hands at the wrist. Disbelief painted the bandit’s face before he started howling at the top of his voice.  
He was still standing when Geralt pushed him stumbling back into the wall.  
“This is still too nice a death for you” he snarled at the wounded man who looked at him with bulging eyes when he drove the sword through him with enough power to nail the other to the wooden wall behind him. Geralt pointed to the bloodied stumps “Wouldn’t want to pull that sword from you. Enjoy the ride.” With that he ignored the pain-filled sobbing from the man and turned to look for the last bandit. He found him in a corner, whimpering and covering his bloodied face with his hands.  
Geralt went over and squatted down in from of him. He looked at his own hands which were covered in blood. Both his and that of the bandits. Slowly he reached out and pulled the man’s dagger from his belt without drawing any reaction from him.  
Geralt turned the blade in his hands and looked at it as if he would still be able to find traces of her blood on it. His breath hitched when he felt his chest constricting. The images in his head were still too clear and real.  
With a rather gentle gesture he threaded his fingers into the man’s hair and pulled his head back. Hesitantly he brought the sharp edge of the dagger to the mans throat but didn’t cut. When the bandit felt the cold steel at his skin he dropped his hands and the empty eye sockets turned towards Geralt.  
“Please…” he stammered. It wasn’t clear if he pleaded for his release or just for a quick death.  
Geralt wasn’t willing to grant him either. He applied a bit more pressure until the first drops of blood emerged from the skin. The man groaned.  
Tears started to blur Geralt’s vision. He needed to end this.  
With a smooth flick of his wrist he turned the dagger so that it’s tip pointed at the mans Adam’s apple. He put his other hand on the back of the hilt and pushed. The crack when the steel went through cartilage and bone was the only sound in the room. Finally the tip emerged at the back of the bandit’s neck. With a shudder the man opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. His body began to convulse and his hands tried to remove the dagger from his neck. Geralt just watched the man fighting the inevitable. Gradually becoming weaker the contractions of the body in front of him died down. Only when the last wet gust of breath had left the man did the Witcher get up.  
It had become absolutely quiet. Geralt pulled the dagger from the man’s throat and left the room. 

When Ayron found him an hour later he was sitting by her grave and turning the dagger in his fingers.  
“We have found them.” The young man looked down at Geralt. “Some were still alive, but none survived.”  
The Witcher remained silent.  
“Do you feel better, are you relieved it is over, that you finally avenged her?” Ayron asked, bitterness tainting his voice.  
Geralt looked up at him “It is good that you feel compassion. But those bastards don’t deserve it. I did what had to be done and that’s it.”  
“I can go now” he said quietly.

Ayron snorted, turned and stomped back to the hospital. 

When the Witcher still wasn’t back the next morning he grabbed some food and water and set out to the cemetery. He knew that grieving could take time and people tended to forget to take care of themselves.  
With a thud the water bottle landed on the grass and the food tumbled from the plate in his hand as he neared the grave and saw Geralt’s body lying on the ground. That he was not asleep was far too obvious. The grass in front of him was dark from the blood that had spurted from the deep slits in his arms. He had removed his shirt first, then slit the length of his wrists with bone-deep gashes and finally still had had the strength to plunge the dagger into his chest straight through his heart. He had made sure this time that no healer in the world would be able to bring him back. The silver necklace with a pendant in the form of a curled-up wolf around his neck beside his own witcher medallion glinted in the rising morning sun. His eyes were still open staring unseeing ahead, their usual bright yellow dulled to a bleached orange.  
A bloodied hand-print was visible at the edge of the gravestone. He must have tried to touch the words that were engraved there but never had managed to reach the deeply cut letters.

My soul  
My heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK - that's it. Thanks for reading.


End file.
